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41

THE “DREAM,” BY BEAULY, ROSS-SHIRE.

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[The high banks of the Beauly, near Kilmorack, in Ross-shire, are covered with birch-trees, ascending to a great height, with occasionally rocks, fir-plantations, and mountain-paths to vary the scene; and the river foaming and breaking into numerous falls below. This magnificent tract, which extends about three miles, is termed “the Dream,” a name that seems to harmonize with the wild beauty of the landscape. The true orthography, however, is the Drhuim, signifying, in the Gaelic language, a ridge. —The Highland Note-book, by R. Carruthers.]

I

In Lomond's isles the rowans grow,
In sweet Glennant the lintocks tarry,
And grand is Cruachan by Loch Awe,
And bonny are the birks of Garry.
Belovèd spots!—yet dearer far,
And cherish'd in my heart more truly,
Are sweet Kilmorack's lingering falls,
The lovely “Dream” and banks of Beauly.

II

The joyous river runs its course,
Now dark and deep, now clear and shallow;
And high on either side the rocks
Rise, crown'd with mosses green and yellow;
And birks, the “damsels of the wood,”
So slim and delicately shaded,
Stand in the clefts, and look below,
With graceful forms and tresses braided.
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III

And rowans flourish on the heights,
With scarlet bunches thickly studded,
And brambles, heavy-laden, trail
Their luscious berries purple-blooded;
And on the bosom of the hills,
Wooing the bees, the modest heather
Waves to the wind its hardy bells,
And blossoms in the wildest weather.

IV

Oh that I might, 'mid scenes like this,
In the fresh noon of life and feeling,
Build up a bower where I might dwell,
All nature to my soul revealing.
Far from the bustling crowds that swarm
'Mid the great city's endless riot,
How happily my days would flow
In converse with these woodlands quiet!

V

Unmindful of the hollow pomp
And festering coronet of splendour—
Heedless of Fame, and all the din
Of shouting voices that attend her;—
With leisure, when my fancy led,
To roam the glen or forest thorough,
To climb the mountain-top, and trace
The torrent upward, by its furrow.—
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VI

To let the winds in stormy nights
Blow in my hair; to tread the heather
In tempest and in calm alike,
Braving, plaid-bound, the roughest weather;—
To hold communion night and day
With Nature—to her bosom turning
Aye for relief—and from her face
New hope, new joy, new wisdom learning.

VII

Oh for a bower where I might dwell
In this contemplative seclusion,
With wealth sufficient for the wants
Of temperate Nature—not profusion.
A cottage on the green hill-side,
Sacred to friendship, love, and duty—
A garden fair, with trees for fruit,
And some for shadow and for beauty.

VIII

Here, not unmindful of my kind,—
Flying the world, but never scorning,—
My voice, to solemn lay attuned,
Or cheerful as the lark's at morning,
Might reach the crowds that I had left,
And bear my thoughts to many a dwelling,
Where human hearts might throb to hear
The tale I would delight in telling.
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IX

The tale, or song, whose burden still,
Serene or glad, should preach to sorrow,—
That sunshine follows after rain,
And after darkest night a morrow;—
That those who strive with evil days,
If their own strength they would but measure,
Might turn endurance into joy,
And outward woe to inward pleasure;

X

That earth, though fill'd with care and grief,
Has joy for those who wisely seek it;
That if the heart be truly taught,
It may defy the world to break it;—
That love and virtue are not names,
But things, to those who prize them given;
And that the more we love our kind,
The more our bliss in earth and heaven.

XI

But fare thee well, sweet Beauly stream!
Upon thy banks I may not linger;—
My task is set, my daily toil
Beckons me hence with ruthless finger.
Farewell, and when in cities pent,
I'll cherish thy remembrance duly,
And long for autumn days again,
To lead my footsteps back to Beauly
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